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Skinnydipping: A Novel
Skinnydipping: A Novel
Skinnydipping: A Novel
Ebook447 pages6 hours

Skinnydipping: A Novel

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Four-time New York Times bestselling author and talk show host Bethenny Frankel makes her fiction debut with the novel Skinnydipping: “A totally fun, dishy read. This is the kind of book that is perfect to pack in your beach bag” (Hollywood Reporter).

Beloved by countless fans for being devilishly dishy, outrageously funny, and always giving it to us straight, four-time New York Times bestselling author Bethenny Frankel now makes her fiction debut with the story of Faith Brightstone. Faith is an aspiring actress just out of college who moves to LA determined to have it all: a job on the most popular TV show, a beach house in Malibu, and a gorgeous producer boyfriend. But when reality hits, she finds herself with a gig as a glorified servant, a role that has more to do with T&A than acting, and a dead-end relationship. Finally, Faith decides she’s had enough of La La Land and moves back to New York with just a suitcase and her dog, Muffin.

Five years later, Faith has finally found her groove as an entrepreneur and manages to land a spot on a new reality TV show hosted by her idol—the legendary businesswoman and domestic goddess, Sybil Hunter. Diving into the bizarre world of reality TV, Faith’s loud mouth and tell-it-like-it-is style immediately get her in trouble with her fellow contestants, and she learns about betrayal.

As the show comes to a dramatic close, Faith discovers that the man of her dreams may have just walked into her life. Will she choose fame or love? Or can she have it all?
LanguageEnglish
PublisherAtria Books
Release dateMay 1, 2012
ISBN9781451667431
Author

Bethenny Frankel

Bethenny Frankel is a five-time bestselling author. Her books include Skinnygirl Solutions, Skinnydipping, A Place of Yes, Naturally Thin, and The Skinnygirl Dish. She is the creator of the Skinnygirl brand, which extends to cocktails, health, and fitness, and focuses on practical solutions for women. She is also the host of the reality TV series The Big Shot with Bethenny airing on HBO Max. Visit her at Bethenny.com.

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars
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  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Considering it's basically a fictional version of Bethenny's life, I liked the book. However, the contest section was extremely long, which is understandable since that's what most of the book is about, but on the other hand, did we really need to know what type of dessert she decided to put on the menu? The one big flaw of the book (for me), and the reason I didn't give it a higher rating was because of how obsessive the character is about her weight. As someone in recovery of an eating disorder, this was not the best thing to read, and in fact, took a lot of willpower for me to continue reading. Fortunately, she eventually eases off the, "Wow, I just won't eat for a week!" binge later in the book which made for a much better read. If you're looking for something as witty as Bethenny Frankel, with details about her life mixed into a pot of fiction, this would be a good book to read. I particularly loved the ending, and the very last sentence gave me goosebumps.

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Skinnydipping - Bethenny Frankel

prologue

Where are the stilt walkers? Has anybody seen the stilt walkers?"

I’m calm, but I can hear the shrillness creeping into my voice as I picture the absolute disaster that will result if Andy doesn’t show up soon with the damn stilts and the people to put on top of them. The stilt walkers are essential—the dramatic cherry on top of the charity carnival. The finale of Domestic Goddess, and the deciding factor in the rest of my life. And isn’t that typical? You raise $80,000 for charity, you erect a forty-foot tent practically single-handedly, you hire and coordinate seventy-five employees, and you produce the whole goddamn spectacle, and then your life hangs in the balance because of a couple of clowns on sticks. Meanwhile, the cameras are rolling and America is watching. My failure would make just as good TV as my success, so nobody cares whether I win or not. Nobody but me. And this is just what Sybil Hunter expects. I have to make this work.

Somebody runs past pushing a popcorn cart that dribbles grease along the floor. The amplifier blares circus music, then cuts out with a crackling pop. A chunky, squinting boy in thick glasses grabs my arm—Jerome, the facility manager’s assistant I roped into helping me. He looks barely twelve years old. The sno-cone machine is broken, one of the ponies is sick, and somebody left the banner on the floor and it got trampled, he says, pushing up his glasses nervously.

Easy, Faith. Easy. You’ve done this before. I’d handled events bigger than this, and disasters bigger than this, too. My eyes are fixed on the wide double doors standing open across the warehouse space, where Sybil Hunter stands, backlit, imposing, the evil overlord ready to reign terror and destruction on the final challenge of what has come to be, in my mind, a sell-your-soul-to-the-devil concept: reality television. I imagine her smirk, her lust for my failure. I’m barely noticing the cameras rotating around in front of us, though part of me recognizes that my alarm is being recorded for national consumption. Tears are welling up, but I bite my lip hard, reminding myself what Sybil told me during the middle of the season, when my team lost a challenge and turned on me, the team leader. A woman who shows weakness in this business won’t last long.

Suck it up, Faith. This is it. Keep your eye on the prize. With a last glance at Sybil’s Hitchcockian outline, I turn to the pimply kid waiting for instructions. They come out of me like machine-gun fire: "Call the vendor and demand another sno-cone maker within forty-five minutes. Get the sick pony out of here, call a vet, call the rodeo, whatever it takes. Repair the banner—just make it look good. And for God’s sake, get Andy and Jodi Sue over here now! I need my fucking team."

He nods and runs off. I stare at my clipboard. The list of unchecked items is three times longer than the list of checked items. I persuade a man with a mop to clean up the grease that’s trailing the popcorn machine. My eyes dart over the list, trying to prioritize at warp speed. Suddenly, Jodi Sue, eliminated contestant and disgruntled team member, is in front of me.

I can’t find Andy, she says in her squeaky voice, her cleavage even more evident and elevated than usual in a bright yellow wrap dress with a plunged neckline. I finished the caramel apples, the cotton candy machine looks great with the neon, and the programs were just delivered and they’re perfect.

Show me, I demand. She holds out one and I grab it. The glossy, oversized program has saturated carnival colors, balloons, clowns, and a Ferris wheel on the cover. Good, very good.

But Andy’s still MIA, she adds, shrugging.

Where the hell is he? What could he possibly be doing with five stilt walkers in the middle of Manhattan?

I really don’t know, she says, shrugging again. He won’t answer his cell phone.

This is great. Just great. This is Shari Jacobs’s lucky day, I mutter. I could just imagine Sybil Hunter fawning over my ex-BFF/archenemy and fellow finalist, as she pulled off her final challenge with typical high-rent perfection. I get a carnival, and she gets a baby shower for Sybil’s pregnant cousin. A fucking baby shower. I can just see the fondant baby bootie cupcakes and sterling silver rattle party favors and pink champagne. They’ll all act like best friends, trying to impress each other with how rich their husbands are.

And here I am, sweating it out, pits soaked, with swamp crotch, trying not to have an anxiety attack, and running on fumes both on this warped excuse for a television show and in my life, with just eighty-seven dollars in my bank account and a team that hates me. Everything depends on an out-of-control carnival about to go horribly wrong. I’m so damn close to winning, and I need that prize more than anything, more than anyone else on the show. I just can’t bear going back to my so-called normal life.

Now I’m sweating blood to make this event happen, and I can’t even get some paid extras on poles to show up—hell, I can’t even get my whole team to show up.

I look around: total chaos. A group of union guys tries to unroll artificial turf into the same spot where another group is trying to set up the Ferris wheel. A speaker on the sound stage wobbles and topples over with a crash, nearly crushing the woman trying to secure it to the stand. I look at Jodi Sue in despair.

How are we going to do this? I say. How is this even possible?

Search me, she says. It’s your challenge. I was eliminated weeks ago, thanks to you, and I wouldn’t be here helping you if it wasn’t in my contract, because I think you’re a bitch. She smiles sweetly.

I’m in this alone. It’s a zero-sum game.

OK, Jodi Sue, I say. Why don’t you just go sit on your ass out of the way and get your cleavage ready for the stilt walkers. They’re going to have a great view. Her mouth drops open as I spin away and set off to track down Andy. Because if I don’t find those clowns in the next fifteen minutes, I might as well not even show up at the finale. As I storm past Sybil—she stands silently, critically in the doorway with her arms crossed—I can’t help myself. What do you think, Sybil? I ask. Are you entertained? Is it everything you hoped to see from me? Because you haven’t seen anything yet.

PART ONE

chapter one

Who do I have to sleep with to get a drink on this plane?"

I called out the request randomly, hopefully, as passengers pushed down the aisle into coach, their suitcases bumping my arm. Some of them raised their eyebrows at me, but I’m used to that. I’m rarely what you would call appropriate, although what these people around me didn’t seem to realize was that tequila is always appropriate. I just smiled at them.

Besides, I couldn’t contain myself. Just minutes before, I had been sitting at the gate in Kennedy, devastated, trying with every inner resource I had not to break down into tears in front of everyone, and dreading how I would tell my father I’d missed the flight. Getting onto this flight meant everything to me. Everything. I’d skipped college graduation to catch this flight, but last night I’d stayed out until four club-hopping with friends I hoped never to see again, celebrating the end of my four-year imprisonment at NYU. I’d gone home with some handsome dark-haired Wall Street trader whom I’d then wrangled into driving me to my apartment, double-parking out front while I ran upstairs to grab my bag (and pull off last night’s sequined halter top and mini skirt in favor of a black jersey dress that didn’t wrinkle too badly), then driving me to the airport. Heading toward JFK, I lectured him about how fast to drive and which route to take. He’d dropped me off in front of the terminal, not sure what to do about my tears and hysteria about missing the plane. What was his name again?

Anyway, I’d been too late—or so they’d told me, until the woman at the desk called my name.

Faith Brightstone, please come to the ticket counter. I was sitting right in front of her, for God’s sake. Did she have to use the little microphone?

Yes? What! I’m here, I said, jumping up and clutching my carry-on with suddenly renewed optimism.

There’s one seat left. Hurry! She pointed to the door. I sprinted down the jetway, nearly toppling off my sample sale Manolos with the four-inch heels, the ones that had finally tipped my credit card over its $30,000 limit. I rushed breathlessly into the first-class cabin, where a flight attendant with her hair severely restrained in a blonde bun looked me in the eye, and there was that moment when we both knew I didn’t really belong in first class. I wondered, self-consciously, if I still smelled like champagne and sex. I pursed my lips to contain any telltale alcohol fumes and hoped the spray of Chanel No. 5 to the crotch had taken care of the rest.

She surveyed me with undisguised condescension, her gaze traveling over my unwashed hair, my slightly puffy face and probably bloodshot eyes, and my rumpled dress, and fixing on my red leather carry-on, the one I’d purchased because I knew it would absolutely meet any airline’s carry-on standard. And because it was red, and stood out from the others. "You’re going to have to check that, dear," she said, smugly.

What? But it’s small! We can squeeze it in, I know we can. Please! Frantically, I unzipped the front pocket and pulled out the tangle of bras and underwear I’d packed, and stuffed them into my purse. There. Just let me try to make it fit.

She sighed, barely able to keep from rolling her eyes. "I suppose we could move this, and this." She spit out the words as she rearranged two other bags in the compartment above that one beautiful empty seat that was about to be mine. She took the carry-on from my hands and jammed it unceremoniously between a silver hardshell Tumi carry-on and a Louis Vuitton tote the color of browned butter. Then she actually wiped her hands on her skirt, as if my bag was covered in cooties. I almost laughed—with relief, because of a slight sense of hysteria I’d been nurturing since I woke up in a panic, and because she was just so mean that it was funny. She turned primly and walked away. Bitch.

One day, I vowed, I would belong in first class, and people would wonder who I was. She’d be kissing my fully-paid-for Manolos.

I threw myself into the seat and sighed with deep contentment. I made it! And now, at last, I could relax. I looked at the man sitting next to me—schlubby, middle-aged, with a thick rectangular mustache. An almost–Tom-Selleck type. He wore an expensive suit and had a pile of scripts on his tray table. I noticed a very nice briefcase under the seat in front of him. I smiled to myself. I was intrigued. It wasn’t the standard reading material I usually noticed on planes. I was really on my way to Los Angeles.

So, in that spirit, where was my drink? Wasn’t that the whole point of first class?

The woman with the blonde bun walked by, brusquely checking that everyone was following the rules for takeoff. She stopped at our row and told Almost–Tom-Selleck, Sir, please put your tray table up for takeoff. He moved the scripts to his lap, as if he’d done this a thousand times before. Although I didn’t like my odds considering our previous encounter, I decided it couldn’t hurt to ask again: So … when do we get those drinks? I asked her, trying out my best Hollywood smile.

We’ll be serving the drinks momentarily, Miss, she said icily. Please try to be patient.

I sat back, closed my eyes, and imagined a serious-faced man in some sort of flowing university regalia reading my name in a monotone: Faith Brightstone. He’d move on to the next name on the list when I didn’t appear. And why would I? I’d escaped that place like I’d just broken out of prison, and besides, I had no patience for sitting through the pointless ritual, even if my mother had begged me to attend. Darling, I just want to see it happen, she’d said over the phone, her words a-slur with her third highball of the afternoon. Because who would be-leeeve it?

Nobody thought I would actually graduate, much less on time, but I had surprised them all. I’d always been good at getting by—I could memorize well enough to ace the tests, and I was an expert grade finagler. Plus I had a knack for briefly dating the T.A.s until after the tests were graded. I hadn’t exactly been a model student. Once I made it into NYU, I quickly became more interested in partying than studying. I smiled, imagining my college roommate, Samantha, seeing me right now. I know what she’d say. Faith, only you would avert certain disaster and end up in first class. I would miss her … and her fabulous shoe collection.

But I couldn’t get out of Manhattan soon enough. I was L.A.-bound, baby. My star was rising. I could feel it. I had fame to chase. Success to score. Moguls to meet, whom I would allow to seduce me. And who knows what else? Movies to make? Sitcoms? High-profile commercials? I was going to take Hollywood by storm, damn it. I would show my mother what to be-leeeve.

All I’d ever really wanted out of life was success in my chosen career, and perfect, passionate, eternal love with a hot and preferably independently wealthy soul mate. As I waited, patiently, for the drink the airline owed me, I decided I wasn’t asking too much of life. I’d been dealt a fairly shitty hand so far, all things considered. Now, it was my turn to cash in. I’d certainly paid on the front end.

The flight attendant reappeared at my elbow with two glasses of something bubbly. Obviously, she’d failed to find any loopholes that would allow her to deny me this simple pleasure. I sipped gratefully. In a sudden impulse of solidarity, I held up my glass to toast my seatmate. He gave me a wry smile and clinked my glass with his. Hair of the dog, I said. I could feel a killer headache coming on, and I hoped the cheap sparkling wine might head it off. Of course, there was a fifty-fifty chance it would just make it worse.

I held out my hand. Faith Brightstone. What do you do?

He smiled a surprisingly attractive, genuine smile and took my hand. He had a firm handshake. But so do I.

And? he said.

I paused, confused. And? I repeated.

Aren’t you going to ask what I drive?

Should I have?

He laughed. No. No, you should not have. And I’m Larry Todd. I’m a producer.

Really? Wow. That is such a coincidence, I said.

Let me guess. You’re an actress?

Not yet, I admitted, suddenly embarrassed. I didn’t want to sound like just another MAW—the acronym I’d heard for a Model-Actress-Whatever. I didn’t want him to discount me as somebody who wasn’t anybody. I wanted to sound more intellectual, more significant than that. I’m fresh out of NYU and headed to L.A., I said, trying to sound smart. I’m going to give it a try.

Courageous, he said. But let me give you some advice, New York. And this is just because you’re not from L.A.

What’s that? I said, my interest piqued. I was ready to learn whatever Larry Todd, producer, had to teach me.

Every gold digger in L.A. asks ‘What do you do?’ and the follow-up question, ‘What do you drive?’ Avoid those two questions and you’ll separate from the pack.

I blushed. That wasn’t what I was trying—

He interrupted me with a laugh and raised his hand. It’s fine. Now you know. He paused, then added, "And as long as I’m dispensing advice, don’t ever ask anybody’s sign. That’s just annoying. I hope you never become that comfortable in California! There’s definitely something to be said for being from somewhere else."

Thanks, I really appreciate the advice, and I’ll take it. I learn fast, I said.

I’ll bet you do. He smiled. So, an actress. Do you have any experience?

I couldn’t help cringing at the way he said actress. It sounded wrong. I didn’t feel like I could call myself that yet because I hadn’t earned it, but I wanted so badly to claim the title. I was salivating for it.

I did a little theater in college. But frankly, I couldn’t wait to get out. College wasn’t really my thing. I paused, wondering if I should continue. I’m too impatient.

You want success and you want it now, he said.

That’s so true, I said. "When I was just a high school freshman, I was cast as the understudy for Maria in our school production of West Side Story, and I turned it down because I wanted to be the lead, not the understudy."

He smiled in a fatherly way. Sometimes you have to pay your dues first.

As the plane backed out of the gate and headed toward the runway, I thought about my father. He was probably a little bit older than Larry Todd, but I hadn’t seen him in fourteen years, and I’d spoken to him only a handful of times. Ever since my mother left him, taking me to New York with her to marry one of my father’s friends and rivals, I felt responsible, like I had left him, too. I’d been four years old.

My mother used to tell me he blamed us both for leaving him. I believed her. I’d spent the last eighteen years trying to make it up to him, but he was a hard-bitten, unforgiving man who hardly ever made himself available to me. When I’d called my father and told him I was moving to L.A., I asked if I could stay with him for a little while, just until I found a place. He’d reluctantly said yes. I’d expected a no, but I had the impression that someone in the background was telling him to let me visit. Probably his latest girlfriend. As far as I knew, he’d had a long string of them, always girls from the racetrack, horse trainers or exercise riders, girls who would be impressed with his reputation as one of the best thoroughbred horse trainers in the business, girls not much older than me. But even if he hadn’t exactly said he was going to throw me a welcome party, I still held out hope—maybe he was ready to have a relationship with me. Maybe he had wanted to be convinced. Maybe he had just needed me to come to him.

I glanced at Larry. He was handsome, in his way. Maybe a six. Out of habit, I immediately looked for a wedding ring. He wore a thick gold band. He was wealthy, powerful, influential. Married. Money intrigued and excited me, and fame was a dream.

So, Larry Todd, what exactly do you produce?

He had been flipping through another script, looking bored and distracted. He tossed it onto his tray table and turned to me. "Have you ever seen Hollywood & Highland?"

My eyes widened. Shut up. You produce that? I watch that every week. He’d suddenly gone from a six to an eight. Hollywood & Highland was one of the hottest new primetime soap operas. Everybody I knew watched it. The show followed the personal lives of a group of beautiful people who worked in the sprawling Hollywood & Highland complex of theaters, clubs, restaurants, and the hotel on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue in Hollywood, California—right where I was headed. When something big was about to happen on the show, viewers would call in sick from work, skip studying for tests, even cancel dates.

I’m glad you’re a fan, he said.

You could say that. I said it lightly, shrugging. The wheels were already turning. I wanted in. I belonged in that world. I would fondle Larry Todd’s balls in the airplane bathroom right now if it would get me on that show. I’d been with worse-looking men for less compelling reasons than this. This was Hollywood & Highland! I felt like I already knew the characters. Brighton, the core character, was a gorgeous, sexy power blonde who ran the hotel. Ethan was the hot bartender at Glo, a trendy Hollywood restaurant. Chloe was the waitress who was always getting into trouble. Isabel booked acts for Dark Side, the nightclub, and Jayden was her philandering husband. I loved that show. OK, Faith. Don’t fawn. Don’t be a groupie. Connect. I groped desperately for words. It’s a well-done show. It really is.

Where are you staying in L.A.? he asked. I wondered if it was a proposition.

My father lives there. I’m staying with him until I can afford my own place. He’s a horse trainer, I added, hoping he might ask for my father’s name so I could impress him. Just for a moment, I imagined sharing my fantasy that we were close, that I was proud of his success, that I somehow had something to do with it. Faith Brightstone, loving daughter of legendary horse trainer Frank Brightstone, stands behind her father as he is once again honored as Trainer of the Year. Camera bulbs flashing …

Not Frank Brightstone—is he your father?

Ah. He knew. Yep. Dear old dad. It made me feel low, knowing my father didn’t give a damn about me. I hadn’t done anything for him to be proud of … nothing spectacular … not yet.

He raised his eyebrows at the edge in my voice, but didn’t comment. I don’t know him personally, but I know of him. He trains a horse owned by a friend of mine.

I’m not surprised, I said. He knows people. Not that I’m one of them, I wanted to say, but bit my tongue. I smiled, brightly. I haven’t seen him in a few years, so it will be a reunion of sorts, I suppose. I suddenly felt the urge to change the subject. But what about you? Are you coming home from a trip?

I have to go to New York every so often. It’s usually boring. This has been the most interesting part of my weekend.

I elbowed him lightly, flirtatiously. Flattery will get you everywhere. Don’t go too far, Faith, I lectured myself. Stay on the right side of the line. Don’t blow it.

You know, you impress me, Larry Todd said, again with that warm genuine smile. I have a daughter about your age, and I send her money all the time but she never wants to spend any time with me. I don’t see too many young women who want to chat with the old guy in the seat next to them.

You certainly are not old, I said, wondering why my father didn’t long for a relationship with me the way Larry Todd wished for more time with his daughter.

He laughed. I appreciate it. And you’ll be just fine in L.A. I can see you’ve got energy, and dare I say, ambition? Was I that obvious? Larry Todd continued, I’m actually in need of a production assistant right now. He looked me over, thoughtfully, non-lecherously, as if sizing up my potential self, rather than my current self. It’s an entry-level position. You’d be getting coffee and faxing and running messages, but maybe you’d like a chance to see the show from the inside?

I played it cool. Very cool. Sounds interesting, I said, taking the magazine out of the seat pocket in front of me, not looking at him so he couldn’t see that my head was about to explode just considering the enormity of this opportunity. I wasn’t even in the air over California yet, and I’d already scored a job? I was afraid to say anything more, lest I end up groveling on the floor and kissing his black Ferragamo loafers, so I waited a beat, then carefully, nonchalantly, said, That might be just the sort of thing I’m looking for.

It isn’t acting, he said, looking at me with amusement. Could he tell I was about to burst out of my skin? But it’s a beginning. You would meet a lot of people. Put in the time and the effort, and maybe you’ll get a break.

I looked him in the eye and smiled. I would love the opportunity, I said evenly. A master of self-control. Hell, I’d be the best damn coffee-fetching, faxing, message-running production assistant they’d ever encountered.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cream-colored card with his name and phone number in embossed tobacco-brown script—elegant but masculine. Give me a call, and have my assistant set up an interview. Her name is Mia.

Thank you, I said. Mental note: Find excellent, affordable gift to send to Mia. Really. Thank you so much. I touched his shoulder lightly, meaningfully. "Thank you."

The hours passed. We chatted, drank, flirted benignly, drank some more, debated about the relative worthlessness of the products in the catalog. Another drink? Why not? He never mentioned his wife, and I never asked. Finally, I closed my eyes and drifted off. My headache began to melt away. The last thing I remember thinking was: Am I really taking a nap? Me, the insomniac? Auspicious …

When the plane jerked with the release of the landing gear, I bolted awake and looked around, momentarily confused. I think we’re descending, Larry said, orienting me. I looked past him, out the oval window, as the plane dropped lightly through the clouds. Below, I could see the sprawl, and the yellow-gray haze that hung over most of the Southern California coastline.

Together, Larry and I watched the city rise up to meet the wheels of our plane, and I felt like my new life was ascending to meet me. I had arrived, and I was going to make the most of every second.

Can I get your bag for you? he asked, as we rose stiffly from our seats. I blushed, realizing he’d certainly watched the flight attendant’s treatment of me at the beginning of the flight.

No, I’ve got it, I said quickly, yanking the handle to unwedge my bag from between its more aristocratic brethren. I noticed a scratch in the red leather. I would show that flight attendant. When I’m famous someday, she’ll be groveling. I like to travel light.

To move here? Surely you’ve got more than this.

I didn’t want to bring anything with me, I said. I’m starting over. Underwear and a toothbrush. I paused. Not that I’ll need the underwear, I said, giving him a wink.

He laughed. A toothbrush and a whole new life, then.

We filed out of the plane, and as the crowd jostled us apart, I called out to him. Good-bye, Larry! It was great to meet you! I’ll give Mia a call on Monday!

Off to the races, he called, raising his hand in farewell.

chapter two

It wasn’t that I expected him to be there to pick me up. We had arranged that I would come to the house, but I still scanned the line of drivers holding up signs, a tiny part of me hoping that one of them would say my name, that maybe he would even surprise me and meet me here. I was always living in a TV movie, hoping for a happy ending. I wasn’t going to get one today. Would I ever learn?

I gripped my bag tighter, for courage, and marched resolutely past baggage claim and out to the taxi line. Normally, I would have taken whatever was cheapest—the shuttle, the bus—but this was my big debut in L.A. I wanted a cab.

As I waited my turn, I looked at the palm trees across the road, lined up in front of a white parking garage, and I couldn’t help but smile. California. I climbed into the cab. 4191 Alta Drive, Santa Monica, I said in the brusque New York way I always spoke to cab drivers. The driver turned to look at me. He was ancient.

Yes, Miss. Why in such a hurry? You are in California now. No more New York. You can relax now.

I laughed. Is my accent so obvious? OK, I’ll relax now. I’ll enjoy this beautiful day. I leaned back against the seat and looked out the window. Sunny, and not a cloud in the sky. I could get used to this.

"That is very good. People always want to be in a hurry. They want to control everything around them. Even the weather. They say, ‘What is the weather today?’ The only thing they don’t control is themselves, when that is the only thing they can control."

Ha, that’s true. I come to L.A. and I get a guru for a cab driver.

He chuckled. He sure was friendly.

I think the weather here is perfect, I said. I won’t ever try to change it.

Nothing wrong with the weather. And nothing wrong with you. He nodded firmly, then guided the taxi onto the freeway.

I was definitely not in New York anymore.

The cab merged onto Pacific Coast Highway, then turned into my father’s neighborhood. The nearer we were, the more I began to panic.

The cab slowed, creeping along a beautiful residential street with ridiculously large houses, then stopped in front of a gorgeous two-story Spanish-style home with a red-tile roof, balconies in front of the windows, and a set of coral-colored granite steps leading up to the front door, which was hidden behind flowering trees. Classy and private, just like my father.

I paid the cab driver with the last of my cash and stepped out onto the little strip of grass along the curb. I took a deep breath, summoned all the confidence I had left in me, and climbed up the stairs to the front door. I knocked, my heart pounding in my chest. People always used to say I looked just like him when I was a child. I was hoping I still did, so I could feel some kind of ownership, or at least some kind of connection—some biological evidence that I really was his daughter. I knocked again, then tried the handle. The door opened. Cautiously, I peeked inside and called out. Hello? It’s Faith! Is anybody here?

Come in! A deep voice resonated through the atrium from somewhere upstairs. I assumed it was him. He wasn’t coming down to meet me? I couldn’t help but feel disappointed as I stepped inside, but disappointment quickly turned to awe.

The entryway was covered in a rich, gleaming, honey-colored tile. An elaborate brass-and-crystal chandelier hung from the cathedral ceiling, which rose to a dramatic peak above the second floor. To my left, an intricately carved dark walnut table held three of the biggest white irises I’d ever seen, surrounding a silver bowl full of white roses.

A marble staircase with an elaborate wrought-iron rail spiraled up to the second level. Beautiful, dark, brooding paintings hung on many of the walls. In front of me, a door led to what looked like a sitting room with a two-story wall of windows looking out over a swimming pool. Behind the staircase, I could just glimpse a long, carved dining room table and another chandelier. I’d never been more impressed in my life. I pretended it belonged to me—that I was home.

My heart fluttered again as I heard someone coming down the spiral stairs. I felt foolish, standing there in my messy cheap traveling dress, and I self-consciously smoothed it over my now-concave stomach, which growled lightly in response. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. I tapped my toe nervously on the tile, and froze when the sound echoed. I looked expectantly at the stairs, waiting for him to appear.

But he didn’t appear. Instead, a girl about my age came down the stairs, her face eager. She had long blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail and she wore pink lip gloss the exact color of her pink satin track shorts, a tight, capped-sleeved white T-shirt cropped short to show her midriff, and white running shoes. She was deeply tanned with muscular legs, great curves, firm arms, and a stomach as concave but a lot more ripped than mine. My hand brushed against my own stomach again, for reassurance. You could look like that, I thought, doubting that it was true. I was probably fifteen pounds heavier than she was, and I hated that I immediately put myself in competition with whoever this was. She looked like the type who probably went running every morning at six, before she freshly squeezed her own juice and got her B12 shot. I wondered for just a second if my father had some other daughter I didn’t know about. It took only a few more seconds for me to recognize that this was, of course, not his daughter.

I’m Brooke, she said, extending a perfectly manicured hand.

Faith, I said, extending my unmanicured one. Note to self: get manicure before seeing even one more human being!

I’m so happy to meet you finally! she said, then pulled me into a California embrace. Her silky ponytail brushed my cheek. She smelled like jasmine. Is this how they make girls in California?

Right! I said, as if I’d already heard all about her and had anticipated our meeting with her same level of exuberance. Brooke. So nice to meet you.

Frank will be down in a bit. We were … right in the middle of something. She smiled slyly and winked at me. I felt the urge to retch. Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea? Perrier? Chardonnay?

Chardonnay, I answered, too quickly. But it was urgent. Medicinal.

She laughed. Like father, like daughter. Her voice sounded like pretty little chiming bells. Was this chick for real? We just brought home a case from this beautiful little vineyard we visited last weekend.

My father visited vineyards? I remembered him as overweight and never wanting to do anything fun or laid-back. I had heard, though, through the extensive network of people I still knew at the track, that he was now into health and fitness and that he skied. It was hard for me to reconcile this version of my father with the one I remembered and the one so often and so vividly described by my mother. I looked at Brooke. I suppose if he wanted to keep up with girls like this….

I think you’re going to love this wine, she said. She handed me a glass and took a sip out of hers.

I tried not to gulp mine. The wine really was good—buttery with a rich fruity flavor. Mmmm.

She smiled with relief. I’m glad you like it! she said. It amused me to realize that she might actually be trying to impress me. I straightened up a bit, wanting

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